The Bruiser (7 page)

“Mr. Haney's right,” said a stooge—“let the dead rest.”

“He ain't dead,” sneered Sully.

Silent Tim remained pensive, while the stooge said, “He's the same as dead.”

Sully snorted— “I know better—you're not foolin' me—he's in the bug-house.”

“Go and fight Torpedo Jones again—he'll put you there.” Silent Tim turned to the picture of Abraham Lincoln.

“Him and who else—they ain't no bug-house big enough to hold me.”

Silent Tim's eyes returned to Sully. “You're right.”

When the directors of the Ideal Athletic Club learned that Shane Rory was matched with Harry Sully, they sent for Silent Tim Haney.

He stood before the directors.

“Who has he fought?” asked the chairman.

“A lot of good boys,” answered the manager. He named several.

“Never heard of 'em,” said the chairman.

“That don't mean nothin'. Lots of people never heard of Napoleon,” returned Silent Tim Haney. “This boy's goin' places. He's got dynamite'n his gloves.”

“We can't have the match,” said the chairman.

“Then you can't have me neither. I'm quits unless he goes on. I got some dignity left. The guy's a murderer in the ring. He's liable to kill Sully.”

“What are you givin' him?” asked a director.

“Four hundred.”

The directors stood up.

“We can't have it! We can't have it!” they exclaimed in unison. “How can we show a profit, givin' preliminary boys money like that?

Haney spoke swiftly.

“This boy's no preliminary fighter. He'll lick any man his weight in the world.” Haney paused, “If you
don't believe it, he'll tell you so himself.” He became more earnest. “I don't go wrong on fighters—he's got something in his eyes. There's a blaze in his head. He's burnin' to go all the time. Leave it to me.”

After a tirade of such talk, the chairman, fully convinced, but trying to hide it, drawled, “All right, Tim, but—we can't take a chance—Harry Sully'd knock him clear outta the ring.”

“You think so,” snorted Haney. “There ain't nobody knockin' this bozo out of the ring. You see him go once an' you'll swear he's got cyclones in his gloves. He blisters the air when he misses.”

The chairman looked indifferent. His manner irritated Haney, who said tersely,

“I'll tell you what I'll do-if he don't lick Sully,
I'll kick in the four hundred.”

“Oh well, we wouldn't have you do that,” said the chairman with more warmth.

“The devil you wouldn't. Don't try to kid any old kidder like me.” Silent Tim Haney frowned.

“Well—if you'd rather—we'll take your offer,” returned the chairman.

“It's too late—I take it back,” snapped Haney. “I'll make you another. If he don't win, he gets half of four centuries. If he does—he gets four hundred dollars.”

The directors looked startled.

“It's a fair offer,” said Haney. “If he licks Sully he's a card. If he don't—you'll see a great fight anyhow.”

“But how can he expect to lick Sully?” asked a director. “And how do we know he's a great fighter?”

“I'm telling you he's a great fighter. Don't worry about what he's done before. Who was young Corbett till he knocked McGovern silly? He learned the game in the tanks whippin' a lot of mighty good men. There's not much difference between a first and second rater … lots of times it's as hard to lick one as the other. I've seen fighters wake up in the morning great fighters. Something happens to them. This kid's about found himself. I can tell.”

“But we're not stickin' around till fighters wake up,” a director said.

“Well, have it your way,” returned Silent Tim, “I know more about this kid'n he thinks I do. I saw him belt Eddie Flynn out in less'n two minutes. Flynn might never be a champeen but he might lick a champeen—there's no palookas knockin' him over—it takes a hell of a good man to lick another good man in two minutes.”

“Maybe he got him cold,” said the chairman.

“Cold or hot,” Silent Tim came back, “not till you've been in there will you ever know how hard and swift a punch or how good a man it takes to knock a fighter like Flynn over. Ketchell popped up over night, didn't he? And he was always a great fighter.”

“Who else did Rory lick?” asked the chairman.

“Blinky Miller for one—knocked him bow-legged. He sat down like a Buddha an' rolled over.”

“Not
the
Blinky Miller?” two directors asked.

“Yeap—that's him—I don't want Wilson to know that—he won't throw Sully in with a boy who can punch hard enough to drop Miller.”

“Who else did he lick?”

“Barney McCoy and Gunner Maley—he got 'em in a round like he did Flynn.”

The chairman looked at the clock. “All right, Tim—it's on—we have confidence in you.”

“Shake,” said Haney.

On the night of the fight, Shane Rory skipped down the aisle with a ragged bath-towel thrown across his shoulders.

The open air building was cold. He worked his feet deep into the resin box in one corner of the ring and drew the towel about him.

Shane's second patted his shoulder as the referee called the fighters to the center of the ring.

“He's built like a brick barn,” a ringsider said, glancing at Rory's slender waist and wide shoulders.

“You mean a tiger,” said another.

Smooth as still water, Shane's muscles were without bulge. He walked as though highly resilient rubber were in his heels.

Sully, a red silk robe on his well-conditioned body, looked indifferently at his adversary, and then at the canvas floor. The audience cheered.

Both pugilists nodded approval of the instructions.

The gong sounded.

Silent Tim Haney watched from a ringside seat while the fighters maneuvered for openings.

None came during the first round.

After the bell rang for the second, Sully butted Rory.

There was a deep cut above his eye. His second tried to talk to him during the minute's rest.

“I'm fightin' this fight,” he said, “I'll knock him back in the dollar seats before I'm through.”

The bell clanged.

Shane's head was down. Sully ripped a right from his toes. It caught Shane on the chin. He rolled with the punch; then charged. It was as if a tiger sprang.

Sully's body turned red under the thunder of blows. He sank and got up again.

Shane was on his toes, sizzling murderous punches. All hit their target. Sully sagged, and backed away from the fusillade. Rory tore in, his lips set, his eyes narrowed.

When the round ended, Sully was across the ropes.

His seconds hurried to him.

When the fourth round came, the applause had not subsided. Men stood upon their seats. Sully was not through.

His blood-soaked glove ripped upward. Rory went down. At the count of eight, he saw men fly through the air, carrying their chairs with them.

At nine he was up. Sully was upon him.

Blows cracked, swift as bullets. They stood in close. Under the merciless pounding, Sully crumpled and rolled over three times.

He was up before the count of ten, and charging Shane, head downward. The wound above Shane's eye bled profusely.

His seconds were unable to stop the flow of blood between rounds.

The referee looked at the deep wound and awarded the fight to Sully.

“Thank God,” groaned Al Wilson.

Shane sneered in his corner. “They're a lot of sissies—afraid of a little blood.”

“It's for the good of the game,” soothed Silent Tim Haney. “You oughta be glad you made such a showin'.”

“Huh,” grunted Shane, “you ain't never seen a good fighter.”

Silent Tim was abashed in the presence of such confidence. Before he recovered from his surprise, Shane added, “I kin live on turnips and lick stumble bums like him.”

“It's tough he cut your eye open,” said Silent Tim Haney.

“Why should that make any difference—I kin lick him blind—and here I'm loser—I'm gettin' out of here tomorrow.”

Silent Tim took Shane to his small hotel.

When he called the next day, Shane had gone.

A barrel-shaped man, Silent Tim moved in his rough world without friction. His iron-gray hair was straight as wire. Gentle on the surface and never flustered, he early discovered that honeyed words were harder to dispute. He would often lapse into brogue.

“It's too bad he never gets a break—he's got a big brain,” was Wild Joe Ryan's opinion of him. Wild Joe was a jewelry salesman whose hobby was pugilism. His entire world consisted of characters connected with the ring. Wherever a national contest was held, Wild Joe Ryan was among those present. About as wild as Tim Haney was silent, he had carried the nickname for years. He talked of ring dignitaries with deep respect. His conversation was full of such phrases as “Tex Rickard says to me,” and “I says to Jim Corbett—”

One of his shoulders was lower than the other.

He arrived in town some time after the Sully fight.

Deferential to Tim Haney, as one of the kings of his world, he now approached him. After the greeting, he said quickly,

“Saw a boy down South who's a comer, Tim.”

In the course of many wandering years, Wild Joe Ryan had told Silent Tim of many such comers. They were never heard of again.

Thinking of Shane Rory, his heart beating swiftly, Tim said indifferently—

“Didya—who?”

Wild Joe Ryan fumbled in his pocket and brought out a piece of paper. Adjusting his nose glasses that dangled from a black string, he read for a minute; then said, “His name's Rory—Shane Rory—he's built like Bob Fitzsimmons—only better legs—big shoulders, slender hips—fast as hell and a killer—I saw him at a smoker the Elks gave—the boys thought they'd entertain me a little. After seein' him go, I thought of you right away.”

“Kin he box?” Tim asked warily.

“Yes—but that's not what impressed me, Tim. He kin take it and give it—his jaw's so sharp it'd cut the leather of a glove. He's a good-lookin' boy—”

“To hell with that,” snapped Tim.

“I don't mean it just that way, either—everybody likes him down there—he hardly ever talks, he don't smoke or chase around with women.”

Wild Joe Ryan removed his glasses and said decisively, “If I knew the fight game like you do, Tim, I'd sink everything I had on him—he's got it, I tell you— he must weigh a hundred and seventy or eighty now, and he'll still fill out—he's fast as a lightweight—and he hits like a mule kickin'.”

Wild Joe Ryan snapped his fingers quickly— “He was up against a big, fast coon when I saw him, and he knocked him sideways and backwards so fast the Nigger didn't know which way to fall—it took two men
to get that black man's jaws back in place after he come to—”

Silent Tim Haney showed no surprise, as he asked, “What kind of a punch?”

“I don't know,” returned Wild Joe Ryan, “he cracked him so fast nobody could see where it come from.”

“What was you drinkin'?” asked Tim.

Wild Joe Ryan was slightly irritated.

“All I'm doin' is telling you where to find a million dollars in a hick town—that's all I'm doin'.” He looked at Silent Tim Haney. “I'm telling you this, Tim, because we're pals—we've known each other thirty-odd years.” He fingered his noseglasses, “And I know you're on the level.”

“Most certainly,” replied Tim indignantly, “What town's he in?”

“Buffington.”

“I'll be seein' you soon, Joe,” said Silent Tim Haney.

Haney arrived in Buffington.

A group of young fellows, among them Shane, were in a small gymnasium.

Unaware that a one-time great pugilist watched them through a hole in the building, they went through different exercises.

At last Shane boxed. He was now calm, where he had been a charging fury against Sully. He landed punches without effort. His opponent could not touch him. The gymnasium shook.

An unconscious master of melodrama, Tim visualized him in a ring surrounded by howling thousands. Primitive as the first religion, and cunning as the first lie, Tim felt more elated than a miser discovering gold.

His heart pumped with the ancient lure of battle. He felt the cleft in his jaw that many fists had battered. He stood in the office of Madison Square Garden making demands on manager and directors.

“But this boy'll turn 'em away a mile down Broadway,” he was saying to himself. “Give him a pat on the back between rounds and he kin lick all the heavyweights alive.”

Shane, without a rest, began to punch the bag.

When all was over and the boys had dressed, he walked slowly away. Tim followed him.

Shane turned. Startled, he said, “You!”

“Yes—I got lonesome to see you.” Tim coughed. “I'd like to sign you to a contract.”

“Why didn't you think of that before I fought Sully?”

“I did, but you left town too quick,” was the answer. “I had a return match for you with Harry Sully.”

“When?” Shane asked.

Tim thought quickly. “Three weeks from now—the club's lined up till then.”

“How'd you happen to find me here?” asked Shane.

“I read about you knockin' a Nigger out.”

Silent Tim looked about. “Got any relations here?”

“None—I'm like a crow—I've no relations no place,” replied Shane.

“Thank God for that,” snapped Silent Tim. “You're
a wild horse,” he continued. “You'll tear yourself to pieces and get nowhere on the track—the steam in the engine, and the lightning in the sky—it's no good if you don't control it. Stick with me and I'll get you in the big money. It don't hurt any more to get beat up for a million than it does for a dollar.”

“I don't know—I never got beat up for a million.”

“But you will if you stick with me,” Silent Tim added.

“All right, you do the matchin' and I'll do the fightin'.”

“Shake,” said Tim— “I just want your word—it's fifty-fifty all the way. I'll pay hotel expenses out of my end.”

“That's a go,” agreed Shane.

Silent Tim smiled, and glanced at him with keen eyes. He could tell a better-than-average pugilist at once—the drawn skin, the muscles without bulge, the easy movement of body. He noted that Shane's knees were close together, that he stood with his feet apart, unconsciously prepared to balance himself against the blows of an adversary.

“Come on, my boy, let's go back and fight Harry Sully—I can get you five centuries.”

“All right,” agreed Shane.

“Then when you win, I'll quit everything and look after you.”

“You'd better,” said Shane, “A club like that never saw a real fighter.”